


Crossover Snippets

by Vaznetti



Category: 24 (TV), Angel: the Series, Supernatural, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaznetti/pseuds/Vaznetti
Summary: What it says on the tin: short snippets of crossovers, worth posting but not worth posting as standalone works.  Character and Fandom tags relate only to new updates, in an attempt to keep from clogging people's fandom view.





	1. Shot with Salt (XF/SPN)

  
Dean has strong opinions about people who try to commune with the spirits of the dead, and don't even get him started on people who try to raise their dearly departed, because Dean has a couple stories about zombies and they aren't pretty. If he can just get to the altar without being shot at -- again -- he can disrupt the ritual, but right now he's one-on-one with a crazy old lady here at the edge of a golf course in suburban Virginia, cursing the call that sent his Dad off chasing a poltergeist in DC.  
  
"Listen," he shouts, "you don't know what you're doing!"  
  
"I know exactly what I'm doing," the woman shouts back. He gets a look at her in the firelight: not as old as he thought, and actually, sure, he'd do that, if she wasn't so damn crazy and messing with the dark stuff. "Put the shotgun down and back off!"  
  
The gun's loaded with rock salt and not much good to him at the moment, so Dean bends down slow and leaves it on the ground. He raises his hands and walks forward a little. He gets a good look at the altar, and yeah, she does know what she's doing. That's a bad sign. Dean would also like to know why there's a worn leather jacket, a very nice Glock and an honest-to-fucking-god prosthetic arm on the altar as well. "OK," he says, trying to sound soothing. "OK, ma'am, you do know your stuff, but have you ever done this before?" The look on her face tells him he was right. He takes another step. "Because they don't come back right, that's the thing. Not the way they were."  
  
At that, she laughs out loud. Dean rocks back on his heels with surprise; damn, she's a looker. "Alex wasn't right in the first place," she says. "I'm hoping for an improvement."  
  
He can't help grinning a little when she smiles like that, but then her face goes still and Dean hears something crunch behind her. As she starts to turn, Dean dives and rolls back for the shotgun; he comes up and shoots at the lopsided form just beyond the woman.  
  
"The hell?" A man's voice says. "You shot me with fucking _salt_?"

end


	2. Where the cedars line the road (SPN/Angel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winchester is the thing Lilah Morgan likes best about Hell.

John Winchester is what Lilah Morgan likes best about Hell.  That isn't saying much: it is Hell, after all, so it's never going to be that great, even for the management.  Sex in Hell, for example, is always mediocre, and she spends far too much time filing appeals which will be lost long before they make it to a judge.  She explained what she was doing on his behalf the first few times that they met; now she doesn't bother.  
  
Looking back, she isn't sure how it started: it was probably her, probably the way he looks at her like she doesn't exist.  When she was alive, she would have said she liked a challenge, but this isn't a challenge, the other name he bites back, the way he rolls off her, or pushes her away.    
  
He thinks she's part of his punishment.  She doesn't correct him; after all, she knows he's part of hers.  


end


	3. Love, Power, Freedom (XF/24)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only one question matters, but what is the correct answer (Nina Myers, Marita Covarrubias)

The blonde had eyes like ice, not a hair out of place, and as for her dress, Nina would have bet her last cigarette that she'd bought it in France: it was just the right kind of dowdy. It didn't matter what she was claiming to be. Nina knew what she was.

Her guards walked her in and sat her down. Cool eyes flicked over her and the blonde said, "Take those cuffs off." One of the men started to protest, but at the lift of an eyebrow he bowed his head and obeyed. Nina placed her hands flat on the table and smiled. She had always approved of power.

"Miss Myers," the woman began. "I'm here from the State Department. We have a few questions we believe you can help us with."

"You should already know that I'm refusing to answer any questions."

"It would be in your interest to answer mine," the woman said.

Nina simply looked at her. There was no hint of fear on the other woman's face, no emotion of any kind. The silence stretched out between them across the table until the other woman smiled and opened the folder in front of her.

At least the questions were different: nothing about any plan to subvert the U.S. government, of which after all the woman no doubt knew more than enough. This time it was one after another about Russian involvement in Serbia; each time Nina repeated the same words, "I cannot answer that."

The only evidence of irritation came at the very end. The woman snapped the folder shuit and commented, "It's a shame that you insist on not cooperating."

"Why should I?" Nina asked. "You won't release me." She wondered if the other woman knew about the basement rooms she'd been taken to more than once. She hadn't answered the questions there, either.

"As you say," the other woman said and stood. She paused in the doorway and asked in Russian, "Did you love any of them?"

It was, Nina suspected, the only question that mattered, the reason for the whole interview. She considered her response carefully. "Why?" she asked in the same language.

"If I am to arrange your release, I need to know the answer."

Nina nodded. It was a question of her reliability. "No."

She was surprised to see pity in the other woman's eyes. "Very well," she said in English. "If you change your mind about answering my questions, you may have the prison administrator contact me: Marita Covarrubias." Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of her perfume drifting in the air.

Back in her cell, Nina stared up at the security camera. After all this time, hiding her thoughts came naturally, even her dreams were censored. The grant of a name, among all her anonymous interrogators: surely that was the sign she had passed the test. She had told herself again and again that hope was an illusion, that the promises and threats she was exposed to were of no account. The cool words echoed through her mind: "Did you love any of them?" Yes or no, truth or lie: she'd had a fifty percent chance of getting it right, better odds than she'd had in years. She allowed herself a small smile. Love. Who cared about love, when freedom and power were on the table?

end.


End file.
